


the longevity of a flower

by aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, fairytale AU, loose references to snow shite and sleeping beauty, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18592138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm/pseuds/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm
Summary: Hey, have you heard the news?What news?Oh, you probably mean—He is surely talking about—--Kukuroo Mountain’s very own Snow White, of course.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A ghost with snow for skin, the hue of lilies on top of his lids, sunlight in his eyes and gently sweetened perfume, appears as a new decoration in the renounced family’s metaphorical yard.The man rests inside a glass coffin, his arms crossed, eyes delicately shut as snow rains mercilessly on his domain.He sleeps on, forever caught in the lull of profound dreams.





	the longevity of a flower

**Author's Note:**

> (Longevity of a flower is a spiritual successor to fear. One day you might learn why. And I feel compelled to mention that this should be alternatively titled as 'how some fuck ups deal with loss, or choose to not deal.')
> 
> Song for _the longevity of a flower_ : Flowers for a ghost by Thriving Ivory.
> 
> Enjoy, or don't!

_Hey, have you heard the news?_

_The ones about the breakup, you mean? Everyone and their mothers know about it. I am so sorry for her…_

_No, no, that’s not it!_

_Oi, what are you guys talking about?_

_Speak louder! We can’t hear you over here._

_What news?_

_You are all old maids. Whispering and mumbling stupid—_

_Wait, could it be you are referring to the body bag that came with the eldest child—_

_Was it a body bag? I heard something different._

_I heard he was carrying someone—_

_Bridal style! Climbing the mountain with a—_

_It was raining a week ago when Mel said they saw him in town—_

_Oh, you probably mean—_

_He is surely talking about—_

_- -Kukuroo Mountain’s very own Snow White, of course._

* * *

 

At the tender age of ten the firstborn of the Zoldyck assassins has his first vision; it leaves him in the company of colorful and murderous rages, scratch marks on his temples and strung out hair lying on his bedroom floorboard while his parents stare, horrified and silent.

Fifteen years later, a ghost with snow for skin, the hue of lilies on top of his lids, sunlight in his eyes and gently sweetened perfume, appears as a new decoration in the renounced family’s metaphorical yard.

The man rests inside a glass coffin, his arms crossed, eyes delicately shut as snow rains mercilessly on his domain.

He sleeps on, forever caught in the lull of profound dreams.

* * *

 

This is the way it will be told:

Once upon a time a boy gave his heart to a flower.

To the boy, the flower was the consummation of all the beautiful and lovely things he adored, they were edged on the razor sharp corners of dark pillowed petals that he softly caressed, petals that, marvelously, would split his index finger like a juicy plum and feed from the generous drippings that overflowed down its stem as a result.

It was a mystery, a fantasy and a dream, this unseen, unique flower that welcomed living touch with bloodshed. The boy did not think he had ever seen something so beautiful yet so deadly and bloodthirsty in all of his years walking the damned expansions of nature’s terrain.

The hidden truth: it was the only flower that was capable of making him bleed; therefore, the lonely boy loved it. Loved that it wouldn’t be another one to bleed instead in the cursed nest of his hands, as many had before it.  The cuts on his fingers were like intimate brushes of sunlight, the blood spilt was his shared warmth, the happiness the sole flower’s company planted on the flutters in his stomach.

They nurtured each other like that, by hurting and sharing.

“You are like me,” the boy whispered often to the flower.

The flower smiled and sang him lullabies. The flower told him he was strong. The flower said the truth. The flower didn’t fear him.

Their bliss was short-lived. The flower, in spite of its resilience and harsh touch, was still a flower. It might have been different, it might have been intelligent, it might have been able to feel the ardor in the boy’s chest, but it couldn’t defy nature, couldn’t stop being what the world had made of it.

Not everyone was as appreciative of the flower as the boy. People didn’t like what they couldn’t understand, much less anything that was preordained with the curious functionality of drawing blood from living things. Petals were crudely torn, many attempted to tear it from its home, others were content to light it on fire, happy to harm, eradicate the thing that was unnatural and wrong, even if that meant hurting themselves in the process.

Despite the mistreatment the flower, extraordinary as it was, healed with outstanding velocity. Only to be harmed all over again.

No one approached the boy, the boy who sat alone in the meadow and who watched the abuse unfold in silence. The flower never ceased smiling for him. It said, “It is fine. I do not mind. After all, this is what I was born for. For entertainment, no matter how brief. To hurt and be hurt. That is my purpose.”

The boy saw the picture differently. One day, no matter how extraordinary, enough would be enough, and the flower would start to cave, until it ended.  Outstanding beauty, he realized, was not supposed to endure, it would fade with time, and it would crumble on its foundations because beauty walked hand in hand with tarnish the way two paradoxical things might join in defiance of the unhealthiness of their union.

But what he didn’t care to remember in his greediness was that flowers wilt once they are plucked. Flowers wither without attention, even if that attention is harmful. It was in the flower’s nature to want to remain tied to the earth, to need sun and air and nature to live to its fullest, the way humans too needed to eat and breathe and laugh to function. This particular flower longed for that hatred that drove many to tear leaves and leave where they used to lay torn flesh and gore. Reckless, the flower enjoyed the challenge. Took great pleasure in demonstrating it was just as worthy of existing as its abusers.

Without it, without the things that made it a flower, it would simply be no more.

The boy blinded himself. His own need tied a blindfold around his head. And so, after saying ‘I love you’ one last time, the boy plucked the flower one morning and swallowed it in one go, grinning happily as the petals opened wide the gates of his throat like they once had the meat of his fingers.

That was how the local authorities, who were searching for the author behind countless murders, found the boy’s corpse lying in the meadow. A sea of blood slipping from his mouth, lips stuck on a smile, and the unsuspecting flower scattered lovingly within his cooling form.

The tragedy, at the end, was that in their loneliness, or maybe because of it, neither was able to discern who was in truth the real monster between the two.

* * *

 

“I do not believe I love him,” his hand is pressed where Hisoka’s heart would have been at the mercy of claws, the glass underneath keeping flesh from knife points apart, “If I did, I would know better than to hold on to hopeless dreams.”

Icy breeze whips through shadowy tendrils of hair sprinkled in white. They billow, surrounding the man’s frame like sentient, reaching tentacles.

In this not-meadow, winter is eternal. A mere reflection of the forgotten land hidden inside a lilting voice, an expressionless mask and the life tubes glaring beneath the pallor of deceptively smooth skin.

“But, as you must know, I have never much excelled at letting things go.”

* * *

 

Hisoka lures a boyfriend at twenty. He met him at a bar. The man told him he was pretty without having slipped his dick inside him. Hisoka would never say, would never put in words the ugly creature from his childhood that bloomed in the face of the meaningless compliment.

That year Illumi meets him monthly and Hisoka never fails to show with a new set of bruises. Black eyes that make him look like a raccoon. Bandages collaring his throat.  Bracelets of finger marks. Split lips, brows, inflamed nose, and casts on arms legs and fingers.

Sometimes, Illumi spins threads after threads of musings about Killua all afternoon without interruptions, and Hisoka can only smile in return, spend the entire conversation gleefully silent, nursing his bruised neck. Sometimes, Illumi asks him for salt or sugar and watches as Hisoka masterfully takes a hold of things with his teeth. Sometimes, Illumi requests his aid for demanding jobs, although Hisoka’s strides are hindered by a limp or a shattered kneecap.

Hisoka says that he keeps him around for his own amusement. Says that it’s harmless, it doesn’t really hurt, nothing out of ordinary is being done to him. He can drop him at any moment. It’s like humoring a puppy nipping at your heels, he writes on a napkin when his throat is sore. He forgoes ten, he writes with three fingers one day because two are split, to make the man feel better about his futile commoner strength.

 _Why are you then the one walking around with a bleeding mouth?_ Illumi carelessly retorts in his usual monotone.

 _I enjoy it_ Hisoka says quietly, happy.

Illumi doesn’t ask why. He knows why.

The first time, he admits, is an accident.

* * *

 

 The clueless hunter wades through layers of snow, silently heading towards the cage of glass at the center of the clearing.

It was certainly easier to sneak inside the forbidden land, now that the rabid dog is no longer there to breathe in bones.

He brushes snow away from his clothes and the top of his hat; unconsciously, despite the seeping cold, his palms heat and sweat, as he thinks of the torrent of rumors that led him here.

 _Something strange, stranger than usual, has befallen Kukuroo Mountain_ , local women said in exalted tones, looking nervously around. _Someone saw the eldest son carrying a body_ , a misty eyed teen said, _though I don’t think the person could tell if the body was breathing_. Drunk men shouted loudly _A real life Sleeping Beauty!_ They all leered, mouths twisting with nasty intentions _It must be a real beauty, you know. To be able to attract that Zoldyck ice cube. Surely must be temptation in the flesh._ Beers were raised _I thought he seldom looked away from his little brother’s booty shorts, but clearly not even he can resist the allure of a good pair of breasts._ One man from the back yelled _Horny dogs, there is no fucking maiden waiting to be ravished by any of you. Zoldycks treat with death and death only!_

Closer and closer still, his chest caves in.

_Old fool, he has stolen the most beautiful flower for his garden!_

The nameless hunter’s jaw slackens and his eyes do too, trying to reconcile the image in front of him with the echoing rumors and the reluctant fantasies and the solidified expectations.

He recognizes the sleeping man immediately. He would be a fool not to; it was the responsibility of any hunter worth their salt to be concerned with the most notorious of events in this tiny little world of theirs (that so often crossed paths with both the auspicious and the rotten instances), and to be aware of the most dangerous, noteworthy and strongest of individuals. Anything and anyone that could one day become a threat, a foe, an ally or a possible bounty.

The words resound but fail to connect: Murderer, sadist, masochist, monster, freak show, famous Heaven’s Arena fighter, hunter, deviant, pervert, pedophile, clown, jester, hedonist, fag, effeminate, asshole, insensitive beast.

Entranced in dreams, the redhead is possessed by a gentleness unbecoming of _him_ , the person he was during his waking moments—the performer, the depraved artist. This man in the coffin, albeit still outfitted like a forced breed between magician and clown, with the sweep of lashes that carefully curl towards the defined rise of aristocratic cheekbones, the unbelievably elegant arch of an slightly uplifted nose, the shock of crimson locks that caress the bone cutting downslide of his jaw and the tempting hollow of his throat, the blood tinged mounds of thin but bold unsmiling lips, and the prime hints of a body honed to perfection shrouded by layers of eccentric clothes and the unavoidable duress of a more than unsavory personality, now exposed through the exalted curvature of sinewy shoulders, the refined shape of toned muscle arms that finalize with a graceful pair of hands daintily laced on top his swelling chest, the voluptuous arcs of his swollen hips and the strong inflection of his serpentine legs,  is astoundingly alike in every way there is to what a real life figure from myths and fairytales might look like, too close to being the sensuous creature that bar folk enthusiastically sang about, if only for the allure so openly displayed in the sleeping beauty’s unperturbed state, and the hunter, thousands of miles ahead of shock, feels justified in those God forsaken sparks of attraction he felt kindling once, nearly a lifetime ago, watching one of the man’s matches from the stands, as that sensuous mouth that now lies still spread in a promise of death.

He is undeniably beautiful. He has been rumored dead for months, at the hands of none other than the leader of The Phantom Troupe. Here he is, alive, a fierce violent craving imprinted on the clamor for desecration the man’s unconscious innocence tempts to commit. The dangerous phrasings, the blood-clad fingers, the twisted turns of his fancies, the sinuous voice that slides down ears and necks like slippery sweet cream and orchestrates symphonies of tenuous lies—all of those devilish, murderous traits seem distant now.

Inside this fairy book painting, _he_ has been made a sleeping sun, occult beyond the reach of the unworthy.

Seeing him like this, it would not be a surprise for anyone to discover that the eldest of the Zoldyck’s brood brought him here in order to keep him for himself.

_If you manage to open the lid somehow, a kiss will be sure to wake her._

Anxiously, the hunter wrings his hands; his footfalls are shy thuds, bridging the short distance between his body and the one enclosed in glass. He gulps down a morbid thrill because his eyes can’t keep off the vigorous peak of that awaiting mouth. He will be the—

Before he can even brush a nail against the coffin a strong bust of wind hits, the hunter that will no longer be gasps inaudibly, shocked, scared to his core, every orifice loosening, and a gleaming streak, noticeable in the midst of a forceful winter, slashes across his anatomy. From it, a clawed hand tears a path to the exterior, coated in plenty of fluid as it trespasses his chest, supporting his still beating heart.

The snow glows red. And Hisoka Morow slumbers on.

* * *

 

The boy stands, translucent in the sunlight like an optical illusion, horribly fragile looking, more so than the dozens of colorful flowers surrounding him from every angle as if he is the middle, the most important part, the singing voice in a theater, and the core of the composition, while they are merely the untouched background, the spectators of his spectacle, dull when compared to the radiance of those smiling, saddened eyes that gleam gold with wicked and secret thoughts, the bare legs murmured with rashes that stand as if they have sprouted from the dirt, the wonder tinged tilt of a scrawny neck and that face, that devilish youthful face that flickers easily in the not-heir’s mind, the only part of his self that stays true and conscious of how easily beauty abandons beautiful things.

_Why haven’t you killed me?_

“You seem to belong here, Hana-chan. That is why.”

* * *

 

Killua’s blues crackle like live, naked wires, his fists are trembling, he spits, “You are a monster.”

“Am I?”

“I saw what you did.”

“Did you?”

“Stop asking questions!” Electric eyes narrow. “You are not fooling anyone with the clueless act.”

 Conspicuous blinking is the answer to that.

“I went up to the mansion.”

“Ah. The prodigal son returns at last, like we always knew you would.”

It, standing behind the conflicted fighting stance of useless little Gon, stares fearfully, accumulated tears threatening to overflow.

“I saw what you did.”

“I do not like that judgmental tone. I have done only what you have before, so many times might I add.”

“What I have done?! Okay, fine, I scratched her face but you…”

“I did not mean to do it, Kill. You must understand—“

“You butchered her, you nearly killed her! And don’t get me started on whatever you did to the old man—

Insanity rears in like the incoming approach of an avalanche that has been long in the making, and black energy sucks the oxygen from the atmosphere with the unlimited hunger of one who has never known satisfaction.

“Mother did not want him here. Father would not have him anywhere near the property. I just needed… They will forgive me. They have to. You have done much worse. Of course, you are the heir but I am the eldest, I am the best behaved. The one who has always had the family’s best interests as his utmost priority. This slight transgression has to be forgiven, for sure.”

Killua doesn’t look convinced. He looks grim, sickened.

Gon, the pest that he is, cuts right in with the precision of a surgeon, “And will _he_ , Illumi?” His brown eyes are nearly black with rage. “Will he forgive _you_?”

* * *

 

“Flowers are beautiful, yes?”

Her hand on his cheek is like the reverse side of a knife: quick to turn at the first glimpse of weakness.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a preference for flowers, child?”

“I like them.”

Nails drag across a crusting cut.

“How much?”

“Very much.”

“Ah, but such a fancy is unwise! Ask me why.”

“Why?”

“Flowers are fleeting joys, blink and you’ll miss it presence, here one day, gone the next. They are so fragile too, they can be trampled on, plucked, ripped apart for inane reasons, destroyed because of a whim. And in the end they wilt. The always do, sooner rather than later. What is the purpose of momentary beauty then? What is a flower’s worth, when its only merit relies on its most detrimental flaw? Why would you want something so utterly useless and unnecessary? Is it wise to trade one second of your precious time for such a helpless and pathetic existence, one that will not last for long either way?”

The hat tilts, leans down with her. A rose is plucked from the garden.

He knows death. It is a concept he is familiar with. He finds the immediateness of death quite soothing, as his life rarely allows for the rare kindness of immediacy. But the ephemeral was not something he contemplated, or even understood, until that moment, watching the female, nurturing grasp become deadly and life succumb almost too easily under her influence. The beautiful rose is squeezed dry of life.

“No” he answers as a petal touches ground, already tainted with hints of decay. “It is not worth it, Mother.”

* * *

 

 “I killed my boyfriend,” Hisoka comments chirpily over drinks. His posture is relaxed, his irises are bright yellow, his skin is as polished as fine china, and his attention is solely dedicated to the unpolluted shadow of a man sitting next to him.

Illumi shakes the glass in his hand, invested on the swirling of the liquid inside. He hums, shrugging his shoulders. “As expected.”

Hisoka giggles, and Illumi knows, without turning, the numerous crinkles that grow in his glee. A glee, Illumi notes, that is not touched by grief, like the whole ordeal was another meaningless affair, one that didn’t leave him repeatedly in shreds, “It would seem that I am no good at long term relationships.”

“Was that supposed to be a surprising discovery?”

“Hahaha, ouch, low blow, Illu. You are too cruel, sometimes.”

“I do not understand why you bother,” the assassin’s voice is a dead kind of cheerful that speaks of a much more hideous emptiness he cannot conceal.

His stare is bottomless, deceitful, and dark spirals spin within as it traps Hisoka’s skittering one. “You should not engage in such distasteful relations anymore. They are nothing but a waste of your time.”

The magician blinks, feeling dazed, as if soothing fingers have just carded through the stiff strands of his hair, “But of course I do not plan on repeating that experience.”

There is an unfitting strain to the happy twist of his mouth.

“Illumi is always right after all.”

* * *

 

He _knows_. Like a bird knows how to fly, like his lungs know to expand, like his blood knows to run hot and give him warmth, he knows where to find him.

The target and the boy who deals in blood from his day-dreams—he finds them both, and destiny is not a concept he should even dwell on, but he does, setting sight on the secret torment that deprives him from notions of peace and calm with his long and slim legs spread, bony ankles crossed on the target’s back, forcefully pressed against a dirty wall, nails digging crescent crimson moons, and moaning like that is only sort of sound he was born to sound out.

The scene is filthy and grotesque and Illumi is taken over by nightmares of unwanted touches on the inside of his thigh, slurring obscenities being whispered to the waifish swell of his cheeks, and the pungent smell of blood when he spilled it plentifully for the first time, drowned in a voiceless rage, covered in the foul tar from head to toe.

Illumi saw this boy, yesterday, with his neck twisted like that of flightless birds on pavement. Murdered. In this alley.

This shameless boy, who should be dead, should die at any second now— hair the matured purple of wine, circlets of melted gold sinking into the motionless lump Illumi has become and pink plums parting to form a wicked smile, unknowing of the nebulous realities the young assassin has foreseen—severs the man’s head from his trunk with those same clinging delicate hands and sharpened talons.  A spurt of blood is aggressively expulsed from the now headless neck onto the pavement and the grinning boy’s face, and the convulsing body and the boy drop to the ground seamlessly, the latter landing with much more finesse than the first and letting the assassin in training catch a glimpse of what certain leaking residues look like as they pollute the purity of creamy white.

Thousands of imaginary bugs have occupied the cramped space beneath Illumi’s primary protective strip of skin, and he remembers vacantly, the way one does when recalling old dusty skeletons, that he had spilled insides before it had gotten too far. But this boy—he killed after the fact, when it was too late to change the meaning of the outcome. Too late.

Illumi does not cry. He weeps.

* * *

 

She clings to her scandal like a protective shield.

He is again the son she taught a long time ago to despise the enthrallments of brevity. His eyes stare at her, as if not a day has passed since then, open, too open, big and innocent like those of a small child, and she is terrified of the monstrous being that triggered this regression, this degenerative creature that bleeds behind the safety of darkness.

He sits on grass, in the meadow, a decomposed rose in the palm of his hand.

“The flower wilted, Mother.” He speaks, unbelieving, a half watery smile that blurs on his mouth like the morphing of his facial muscles into a raw sculpture of despair trembles, heartbroken.

“He is dead.”

* * *

 

He was overconfident. He presumed. He imagined. He had thought—

When it mattered most, the darned gift, no, the unbearable curse he was stuck with since he was ten failed. It fucking failed.

**He failed.**

The phone rings dead against his numb ear.

He swallows his silent, motionless heart through the tight rope his throat has turned into.

Hisoka will not pick up.

Not- not for a while. He knows that now. He understands. His fist is embedded with jagged cell-phone parts.

He licks the salt from the shivering line of his upper lip, as every light fades from his flickering sight.

* * *

 

The second time is an impulse.

Blood has always repulsed Illumi, he finds the smell lacking, the taste underwhelming, the texture unpleasant. It is also incredibly inconvenient to wash once it has clung to fabric.

His blood is, in contrast, the sweetest nectar, the sweetest punishment he has been dealt with, it overpowers and consumes and demands his attention like its owner does, and as he smothers his hunger, his blinding desire, he holds him, Hisoka, broken Hisoka, in his hotel bathroom, kneeling on the tiles, water from the showerhead punishing their wordless forms, his hands supporting Hisoka’s shoulder-blades, his nose fluttering, taking in musky sweat, repugnant leftovers from intercourse, the particular citrus-like aroma the water assumes after making contact with Hisoka’s nape. They are cheek to cheek (one smooth, the other inflamed as if stung by numerous bees), and Hisoka’s irregular gasps for air are tentative on his own neck—they invoke a fever, a wave of heat that reddens where it grazes—, an uncomfortable vulnerability tinges his naked state (those round hips, that are heavily marked, his crudely torn knees, the ankles that are blue-ringed aggressively, the bruised waist lavished with hemorrhages—Illumi cannot bear to touch him anywhere), the desperate hold that, even with Hisoka’s fingernails choppily decimated, draws wounds on the small of Illumi’s back, the older man’s bareness is stamped upon his own clothed figure, and his humid hair exudes the scent of hastily applied shampoo, making Illumi unintentionally adrift.

If Illumi wanted he could have those limp curly locks tied around his knuckles, and an effortless pull would result in Hisoka’s disconnected head hanging from his clutched fist.

If Illumi wanted he could destroy Hisoka. It would be nearly insulting in its simplicity, nearly as easy as murdering a child. Certainly, he has thought about it—his heart stealing technique impaling him from the tip of his chin to the back of his forehead, the palms that are tracing silhouettes on the older man’s skin forcing it to cave in instead…

If Illumi wanted—

Like a childhood lullaby that was not meant for him to hear, like the touch of a hand he was not mean to feel, like the shape of  laugh he never should have learned, like the desperate pleas he puts down in paper in secrecy and later mourns as he watches them burn in the fire, he knows. He knows too well **what** he could do. The infinite possibilities rarely leave him on his own or allow him hours of precious sleep.

They are closer than they have ever been before. Intimacy is a luxury that neither has dared to indulge in. Between them, it is nearly non-existent. These are uncharted waters, the impossible materializing into the physically tangible. Illumi’s pulse travels to his distended jugular vein.

Hisoka is not the only one that uses misdirection as to not be obligated to speak of the necessary things, the kind of things he cannot admit verbally, the kind that digs deep inside you, like maggots in the dirt, and slowly drains your vital organs until you are hardly more than an empty husk. There are many truths, many secrets, many desires, accusations, hopes and promises that Illumi too would never say. Even though he should, and the unsaid melts his innards with the precise attitude of acid.

Because Illumi would never say, he adheres to silence like a safety blanket, and a pin puckers up, as his false comfort slips down a wet spine to reconcile the division between the two dimples at its base.

* * *

 

The third time is less of an impulse, less of an accident or a slip of conscience and it is more along the lines of a calculated decision,

_(I want to fight Chrollo. Of course I want to fight him. But he is just one member. And as satisfying as one on one encounters are, as powerful as I’m sure he is , where would the fun be if I did not at least try to taste all thirteen of them? What was the point of joining them if not to destroy the whole of the Spider?)_

The fourth time is entirely on purpose, and perhaps the moment is sprinkled a bit with preventive intentions,

_(Hisoka’s eyes glimmer when a young man walks past them wearing a glazed focus, his stare almost sightless, his stick-like arms covered in dark veins and puncturing wounds. Illumi, blank faced and mute, doesn’t say a word, but his disapproval is transparent.)_

After the fourth, it turns into duty. Illumi’s duty.

_(I liked scarring him with his own blades. That stunt got me disqualified, yes. I still think it was worth it. Maybe I’ll join next year and kill every instructor that comes into view. What do you think?)_

_(The old man manipulated me so I would lose interest in fighting him. It pissed me off— that he read me so easily. Actually, it kind of makes me want to fight him even more… Don’t wait up late for me, honey. I am going.)_

The cycle repeats. His recklessness knows no limits. Illumi’s own has no boundaries either. He tells himself every time it will be the last time he does it. But Hisoka…

_(Hisoka somehow learns of the existence of the Chimera Ants. Illumi will not have it.)_

Hisoka never makes it easy for him to stop.

* * *

 

A body is never found. Nothing, asides from rubble and destruction in the area where the debacle took place. The reason is no other than Illumi Zoldyck, who dug for hours, lifting cement and iron and metal beneath a merciless sun until even he, a master of his craft, lost his grip on the use of his nen, and he scraped his knees, scraped his fingers and felt as they bled and his shell of flesh shattered. The blood he didn’t shed gathered in his brain, throbbing as if to give presence to his unparalleled rage. He dug for hours, until he found the fragments of a mangled flower. But no one saw him, and thus no one knew of the forlorn man that clasped at a burning rope with raw hands, as if his survival relied on the most underestimated of deeds: believing in the impossible.

* * *

 

 Illumi sits on the last steps of the main staircase, knees pulled up to his chin, playing with his pins. They drip obscure droplets onto the carpet. He licks the tips, savoring filial iron and salt and flips them, the needles, between slim digits. He is waiting. Has been waiting for hours.

The door opens with a solemn cry; he looks up, a certain lazy quality to the movement that would have gotten him a set of scars branded on his ribcage when he was little. His father steps in, expression thunderous, mouth a strenuous grimace. His eyes remind him terribly of Killua, angry and spiteful.

“Father,” Illumi greets meekly. He tenses, spine straightening out of instinct.

“What is the meaning of this?”

His neck bends innocently to the side. “Of what, exactly?”

Silva swallows the callous feeling that insidiously creeps inside, crawls along the extent of his nervous system and beckons paranoia forwards.

Their perfect son, voiceless Illumi, obedient Illumi, witless and single-minded and dependant Illumi, looking back with that big eyed nothingness, his expression belaying the range of emotion of an inanimate object, while the boy’s mother is lying somewhere, indisposed because of her own flesh and blood, and Silva wonders where was it exactly that they erred, raising this child, how was it that they missed the sinister, bitter murmurs that were festering right beneath the surface, building forts to house and nurture seeds of betrayal.

How could they not have anticipated that their earliest mistake, the quiet, manipulator child that didn’t speak, didn’t cry, didn’t beg or object, the one who had his light trampled on from the beginning, might one day become a threat?

“I am a dutiful son, Dad. I do not understand the cause for the wariness you regard me with.”

Slowly, like a roused feline, Illumi stands. Silva activates gyo at once and although Illumi’s needles are in plain sight, there is no nen to be detected nor seen. He heads straight for his dad, posture unthreatening, and his footsteps mechanic and loud, the contrary of what an assassin’s should be.

All it takes is Silva’s hubris and shortsightedness. The oblivion casted upon the scarlet day of Illumi’s tenth birthday, when he ripped obsidian curls from his scalp driven by a nameless madness.

When his grandfather appears, Dad is lying on his back on the floor, his surprised veneer immortalized, demeanor akin to that of malfunctioning automata, and Illumi has resumed his previous position at the bottom of the stairs.

“I apologize.” Zeno says mournfully, taking a seat next to his eldest grandson. He is alarmingly unfazed by Silva’s current state. Illumi would not put it past grandfather to have noticed the signs of catastrophe before everyone else began to suspect something was amiss. He guesses he has must have seen Mother as well.

“For what?” He inquires curiously.  His hatsu stews in preparation for any unpredictability.

“For underestimating you. I never knew that you had it in you to care this deeply about anything.”

Illumi does not have an adequate response for that. He can read between the lines. _Enough to defy them to these lengths_ , Zeno omits. “I didn’t expect you to—you have acted the role of the family heir better than any of your other siblings. Even better than Killua, despite his ever growing potential. You were… particularly exceptional from your birth, Illumi. That is why I always assumed if anyone was to break the equilibrium, it would have been one of them.”

_Uncomfortable. That is the rightful term. I’m feeling uncomfortable._

 “Milluki, Killua and Kalluto have been spoiled, in their own ways. Your parents have performed inconsistently in that area—rasing you kids—, with your training having been by far the most ‘heavy-handed’. It didn’t seem illogical to conclude that someday a whim of theirs would not go over well with Kikyo and Silva and, as always, conflict would ensue. And I wasn’t wrong, for the most part.” He graces Illumi with seasoned eyes, “What happened? Did you do to him what you have just done to my son?”

Illumi denies with a shake of his head. Some would say that what he has done to Hisoka is much, much worse. Not that morality and ethics would have detained Illumi from doing what needed to be done.

“Since that day fifteen years ago Hisoka has been the source of my strength.” Illumi accepts, admits to the weary hands in front of him, palms spread, and witnesses his syllables fall at the same time as the pins do, “My weakness, too. At first, I only wanted to make them stop. To stop seeing—,” He clenches his jaw, caught in a burst of emotion that takes a minute to subside, “Then, as time passed, that changed. I needed to protect him, no matter what. Eventually, I found the solution. I was gifted with more than a curse. He… he sleeps now. He is safe. I will make sure of it.”

His fingers retreat into his palm, forming a fist. Trapping air. The untouchable.

“I warned you, didn’t I? Love obeys no logic or rationality and when you least expect it, you are doing the unimaginable in its name.”

Illumi says, “I doubt that whatever this is can be called love.” He looks at his father, vulnerable, loose-limbed. A defeated giant, if only for a while. The unimaginable, done in the name of love.

For love with wild hair, wild eyes, wild heart, wild brain, wild everything.

Love that was brought down to his knees, so Illumi can defend him from the world and himself.

Zeno laughs, “I also told you, child, that fairytales are not pretty tales to be admired. They do not end with happy-ever-afters. Not where our world is concerned.”

* * *

 

When his fated fight with Chrollo looms on the horizon, he does not tell Illumi. Hisoka would never say. Not to him.

His head has been hurting lately. He loses track of time, has sudden and effervescent pangs of his past lives, of skinned knees and malnutrion and worms crawling in his stomach. His skin becomes glossy with sweat. His palms tingle, his actions are hesitant. He spaces out.

Nevertheless, Hisoka always shakes his head, shakes the pain off, and marches on with his day as if the ache had not made the hairs on the back of his neck stand in alarm.

* * *

 

His brother is a dread-inducing creature. His hair is a stark defiance to the colorless surroundings. Composed of silky black layers, it captures the one dimensional character of his also black, perusing oculars. His voice retains that deceptive laid-back mood that turns Killua’s stomach all the way down to his navel.

“Well, well, well,” he starts, “It would appear that miracles do, in fact, exist. You are here, in the flesh and unharmed, once more in unpleasant company. One of them being someone I had thought you had previously disposed of. Will the wonders never cease?”

Illumi advances noiselessly.

He doesn’t wear the semblance of someone potentially dangerous. The skin of his forehead is stretched across the frontal bone of his skull, increasing the ridiculous size of his eyes, or at least making them look bigger than they are. His skin color is pasty, similar to that of wax. There is something off about him. Something vastly different than his typical brand of crazy.

He is a doll that has jumped to the real world from children’s horror movies; he is a walking skeleton that maintains a façade of vivacity.

When his older brother demands to know the reason behind their visit to Kukuroo Mountain, --as if he genuinely is not aware, as if his ren is not suffocating their airways at the moment with its density—Alluka is the one that speaks, her breath manifesting in vapor, “A boy and a flower,” she says, and Illumi’s responding grin drags Killua by the ankles to face his cruelest of childhood memories.

“You did not come to visit. Silly me.” Illumi’s fist bumps against the side of his head. Round eyes tighten. His mannerisms, his words, they are mocking. It’s wrong, the finality of it all. “You came to see the dormant prince.”

* * *

 

There are lazy days, lazy instants in which the sun reaches their tall walls and illuminates the fissures, the creases, the holes where they can be breached, and pieces of emotion sometimes allow themselves to bleed through.

In one such occasion Hisoka, who is leaning against a tree, blinking layers of sleep away, carefully sighs, “I am not attractive.”

Illumi, bathing in the sun, doesn’t behave as if he is listening, but Hisoka knows he is, even as his neck is turned towards the cloudless sky, his trademark black halo twirling around his hips.

“My face is strange. My bone structure is too asymmetrical. My lips are too thin, my mouth is too wide, and my nose is larger than life and way too hooked. None of it is attractive in the least.”

When his lids fall open, it is to find Illumi hovering over his prone form. The bridge of his nose warms uncomfortably under that uninhabited stare’s scrutiny.

The assassin concedes too quickly. Hisoka understands that readiness to be the product of the opposite, of his reluctance to have to admit to feeling anything at all. “The nose that you hate, the mouth you dislike. I find them attractive.” His tone is easy, matter of fact. Direct. His eyes do the talking for him, shamelessly absorbing the sight of Hisoka’s unamused features.

Illumi is never shameless, too proper and restrained for such unsightly attitude. However, it seems that none of that matters, here, right now, and the moment is tranquil, nervously honest, filled with light, a peaceful occurrence scattered throughout the long line of wreck and chaos that is his  life.

“That is because you are a freak.”

“Maybe. Does not mean I am wrong.”

It is like they cannot help themselves, can only surrender and give in, as they share and confess random glimpses of isolated souls.

 _For a second_ , he thinks, _for a second I can abide to stand idle_. He smiles the blooming smile that aids Illumi to conclude that the sun is the most destructive force in the universe. Time stands still, holding his breath, recognizing that this cannot possibly last.

* * *

 

“I had a dream.”

“Did you?”

Pale fuchsia strings tumble messily, partially covering his narrowed eyes and the curve of his ears; it is mussed and slack from long days of sleep, his left cheek is pillow burned, and Illumi applies every inch of willpower he possesses into not yielding.

Hisoka’s back hits the mattress, sighing, his melancholy profile touched by glowing city lights. Already crumbling, already decaying.

“It was a memory actually. A repressed one.”

Hisoka murmurs with a softness that peels skin, while Illumi’s north and south collude to make him forget about his senses and bearings.

“You kissed me on the cheek. I remember your breath trembled when you accidentally moved in too close and brushed my lips. And you said, so softly, almost as if you were afraid, ‘Kill him.’”

A glance has never felt so scathing. “And kill him I did.”

“I remember everything,” Says the man Illumi has given everything to, has given everything for. The man for whom he has sacrificed the universe, the stars, the planets, the sun, the moon, the stars, the oceans, lakes, fires, winds, all of the elements for— to be granted the opportunity of one day more with this flickering, tormented being standing tall by his side. This man he detests more than anything, judging him. “I should hate you for destroying my life without even blinking. Congratulations.”

The upcoming verbal discharge is rotund.

The cracks spill purulent rot, pour on the ground all of the degenerate resentments he has not spoken for fear of falling. But he has been falling since he was young, naïve, without care or limitation and, dancing on the brink, he would rather brace for impact.

“I have seen you die so many times.” Illumi hisses, nen spreading throughout the confines of the room, “Nearly my whole life spent on watching a practical stranger die a million different ways, almost every single day. Beaten to death by a disgusting, undeserving lowlife. Fucked to death in an alley. Torture and raped. Poisoned.  Bludgeoned, stoned, disemboweled, drugged."

He has to halt himself there, he is out of breath, his words reveal what his face cannot, and he is hardpressed to recall a period of his life where he has been this brazenly honest to himself.

He forgoes to say that the last sighting he had, the last look at death that came when it no longer mattered what wasted chance of salvation it could offer him, was of Hisoka aboard a vessel. Of Illumi fighting a losing battle.

What he follows his spiel with are toned down versions of the reality Illumi has been living with and dying for the past fifteen years, "Killed because of your own idiocy and reckless nature, your need to contaminate yourself with whatever first harmful colorful thing stands in your path, your ridiculous beliefs of self-destruction. That idiotic mindset which stipulates that if you are not willingly setting yourself on fire you do not deserve to live because you are unworthy. You have no idea of the nights of sleep I lost over those visions of death. You absolutely cannot begin to comprehend how much I have hated you.”

And it is a little funny that the hate does not reach his voice, not for one moment. He heaves, blossoms of pain hanging from his trembling lips, the pressure and pain of exposing himself like he never has before giving them birth, and Hisoka gazes up at him like the moon itself has cascaded in silver rivers from the skies to illuminate the symptoms of consternated awe clouding his visage.

“So no, you do not get to question me. You do not get the right to stand on the moral high ground. Not you, Hisoka. I will not accept it. Not when I have lost my mind and any trace of sanity because of YOU. And yes, I manipulated you, have manipulated you time and time again; inserted I don’t know how many needles inside of you to force you to refrain from offering your life in a platter to the fucking wolves, and I will keep doing it as many times as it takes. I won’t stop. I refuse to let you die and if the price is your freedom, your free will, then I—.”

He is crossing the room, a force sizzling, edging him on; Hisoka fists the sheets, rising on his forearms, the very picture of nonchalance, if it weren’t for the anticipation written on the trail of his conflicted mouth, which has become part grimace, part smirk.

 _Run, you imbecile_ , Illumi fervently screams in his head, _run if you wish to get away from this._

 But Hisoka does not run. The transfixed note that rings as he speaks reverberates everywhere that is Illumi, from end to end of the black haired man’s shell, “How could I have missed _this_? Missed you? This fire, this suffering—”

“Don’t you dare, Hisoka.”

His hands are on his sharp cheeks, and they pull Hisoka close, unimaginably close, and their noses touch, their flushed skin touches, their strands of hair intermingle, before they are fighting to swallow the echoes of passionate, bitter paradoxical falsehoods and gospels.

Illumi kisses him like his lungs have been resting within the safety of Hisoka’s ribcage his whole life, and extracting the oxygen intake directly from his mouth is the only way there is to breathe correctly. Kisses like life will end in the seconds in which they are not joined to one another by the meeting of their mouths. Kisses like he has longed for no other meal, no other joy, no other happiness, no other need, that is not this, mouth to mouth, breath to breath, hurt to hurt, secrets to secrets. For once they are in alignment, feeding themselves with the clash of eager tongues.

“Fight me,” Illumi grits out, still near enough that he can see speckles of green in the eyes that call his home.

Hisoka’s tangles a bandaged hand in his hair, tugs him back where he belongs, stealing as much affection as he can, before it ends. Because it will end.

“No. I have yet to learn how.”

They kiss again, hearts beating at interconnected zones. Fingers struggle to find available skin they can fasten to.

Illumi Zoldyck breathes for the first time against those lips that choke and gasp and blush the more he kisses them, that taste as if they were sugar coated, and he decides right then that this will be the last kiss Hisoka will ever receive. This is the key that will finish them. Like a blaring horn, he thinks of what he always thinks, when it happens: of Father, his heavy hands on his tiny shoulders, a burden that was impossible to carry, untainted Killua, and one precise needle with a precise mission to fulfill. To save. To protect.

When he licks the bite on a puffed bottom lip, he savors salt, something wet that is not spit, and he can feel when the smile slanted over his shaking frown starts to fade.

Curled lashes flutter, tickling humid ones opposite them, and soon, Hisoka’s eyes are closing.

* * *

 

“I really like that meadow, where I killed those hunters that one time when we were cute, unripe fruits. Remember? The one that is not quite mid-way through the mountain trail. Will you take me there, someday?”

“Someday.”

“You promise? Pinky promise?”

“Yes, to the first. No, to the second.”

“That is a beautiful spot for a grave, now that I consider it. If I ever died—an unlikely scenario, I know— I would love for my body to get buried there, among the flowers.”

“I cannot relate. Flowers are feeble, Hisoka. Whatever it is that amazes you right now will not endure.”

“Is it not that, however, part of the appeal?”

“…There is nothing beautiful about frailty. Nothing worthy in what you cannot keep.”

“Hmn, I suppose you are right.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feed. Me. Reviews. Because. I. Will. Sell. My. Soul. For. Them.
> 
> A/N: gUys I'm so sorry for being absent. I would like to apologize especially to the people who have left comments on _fear_ and I haven't answered yet. I've been crazy busy with RL stuff. Basically what happened is that the current situation of my home country is insane right now (I'm from Venezuela, if you didn't know), and I decided it would be better for me and my family if I left the country for a few months until things settle down. So I'm living with my mom in Chile (she moved here last year in search of better prospects that would allow her to send us money back home) and I have been all over the place, getting used to the climate, the ambience, the people and everything haha, thus I haven't had much time for either writing or checking AO3. 
> 
> But alas, I've returned with more doses of sad!Illumi because I can't seem to stop wanting to make him suffer. I have problems, clearly. Sorry. I promise that next time I update it will be a fluffy one-shot that I've been working on for weeks and will be part of this weird kinda fairytale inspired AU that I have just created (god knows where it will end). My point is, it'll be a merry ride.


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